


All the Right Reasons

by L_Morgan



Series: Mister Big [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/pseuds/L_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg wakes up to a rather rude surprise. However, the day gets better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Right Reasons

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of a much larger arc and won't make a lot of sense without having read it. Special thanks to my wonderful betas, Jadis and Starslikedust!

The jeans that he’d found on the top shelf of the wardrobe caressed his arse like a long lost lover. The waffle henley and the chamois button down, which he assumed was what passed for causal in Mycroft’s world, seemed to wrap themselves around him like a glove.

Hell, Greg hadn’t even know that clothes could feel this good, let alone something fashioned out of denim and cotton.  

He glanced around for shoes. 

His were gone, and in their place stood a pair of black loafers that looked suspiciously well made. Shaking his head, and hoping that he hadn’t been dreaming when he’d heard Mycroft tell him that he wasn’t expected at the Yard until afternoon, he snagged a pair of socks from the little wicker basket and leaned down to grab the shoes.

The silk of his boxers slid suggestively across his bum. Damn Mycroft Holmes and his keen - if not totally impractical - sense of style. Between Greg’s memories of the night before, and the sensation between his legs, he was going to be half hard all day. 

He chuckled, thinking that if Mycroft was anything like his brother - that is, too smart for his own good - that was probably the idea. He sat in the end of the bed and slipped on the socks, then the shoes. 

Hand made, no doubt about it. 

He really didn’t want to think about how much these must have cost. 

Nor what it meant that Mycroft was slowly building him a wardrobe that probably cost more than the furnishings in his flat combined. 

The fact that they were bespoke suggested that he’d be taking them with him, unless of course, Mycroft could find another 11 stone, 5’ 9’’ copper with the beginnings of a belly. For a reason he wasn’t ready to put a name to, the very idea of it made him feel a bit queasy. Shaking it off, he pushed himself up and crossed the room to pick up his mobile from where he’d left it next to the bed.

There were three messages: all of them from Sherlock. 

Lovely.

His stomach grumbled, reminding him that the last time he ate was close to 12 hours ago, and he couldn’t even remember the time before that, other than the scone that he’d nicked from Donovan and proceeded to chase with about a quart of really bad coffee.

Hoping that Mycroft had left him some of that delectable French roast of his, and that the supper plate Not-Anthea had mentioned yesterday was still in the icebox, he shoved his phone in his pocket.

Sherlock could wait. His stomach couldn’t.

As he made his way through the house, he noticed, with more surprise than curiosity, that many of the doors that had been shut (and locked) previously, were now open - or, at the very least, ajar.

He tried to ignore the way his heart skipped a beat. Because maybe, just maybe, that meant Mycroft hadn’t really left this morning after he’d said goodbye with a kiss and a few murmured words. Obviously Greg had misunderstood when he said that he must be going. Because surely - _surely_ \- he wouldn’t have left the house this open having left Greg there on his own.

Or would he? And if so....

Greg stopped dead in his tracks, smelling smoke and God only knew what else. 

“What the?!” He took a deep breath, only to find himself coughing, eyes watering. He took another sniff, senses nearly overcome with what smelled suspiciously like curdled milk, rat poison, and sulfuric acid.

And more smoke.

“Mycroft?!” he called, taking the last five steps at a run. 

He went to the kitchen first - it was empty. The typically pristine counter top was littered with half eaten takeaway and Coca-Cola cans.

A cloud of noxious gas drifted into the room. 

Putting his arm up over his nose, Greg made his way into the dining room. “My?”

“Hardly.”

He turned in the direction of the voice; only to find Sherlock, dressed in a ratty blue dressing gown sitting behind a microscope, his naturally curly hair sticking out every which way. The beautiful antique table was covered in test tubes, petri dishes, and what looked, unfortunately, like a chemical spill of massive proportion. 

At least he was wearing safety goggles. 

Too bad that the table hadn’t been so lucky.

“What the hell are you doing?” Greg asked, quickly grabbing a towel that looked at least marginally clean before trying to mop of the spill.

“An experiment,” Sherlock drawled, casting Greg a baleful glance.

“You could at least help!” Greg shouted, trying to keep from the mess from spreading further.

“The table is already ruined,” Sherlock pointed out, adding another dropper full of something to a petri dish, before sliding the entire thing underneath a microscope that looked like it belonged in a hospital more than a private home. “Don’t worry, Lestrade. He’ll take it out of my allowance...” He glanced up, giving Greg a once over. “...Your wardrobe money is safe.”

Greg flushed and threw the sopping towel on top of a brown paper bag. 

“That blue is quite fetching on you,” Sherlock remarked, turning back to his work.

“I’m not interested in your brother’s money, Sherlock,” he said, voice steady. “But I _am_ interested in the willful destruction of his property. What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I was bored.”

“You were bored?” he parroted back, incredulously.

“Yes.” Sherlock laid the dropper down and switched off the microscope. “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Greg shook his head, thinking back to all of the times that Sherlock had sent officers to go get him this and get him that. “And I suppose that you want me to bring you some?” He pulled out his phone and waved it in his face. “Is that why you called me? Because you were bored and you needed coffee?”

Sherlock smirked. “Actually, I’ll take tea.”

 

 

Greg muttered to himself as he made Sherlock’s tea. 

On the one hand, he couldn’t believe that he was actually such a chump that he was actually doing it. On the other hand, he hadn’t really fully put it together what it was going to mean now that he was sleeping - or whatever the hell he was doing - with Sherlock’s brother. 

He certainly hadn’t expected to find the little bastard - bed head and all - pouring sulfuric acid all over Mycroft’s antique furniture in a pique of boredom. And he certainly hadn’t been expected to be lectured by the little prick for taking advantage of Mycroft’s generosity.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” Sherlock drawled from the doorway. “You’re not that good at it and you’re putting me off my tea.”

Greg turned, slamming the freshly made mug of tea down on the counter, nearly knocking over a half eaten carton of rice. A long abandoned chopstick flew through the air, eventually landing near his feet.

“You’re really about to piss me off, kid.”

Sherlock bent at the waist, resting his spindly arms on the countertop. Whatever the heck he was wearing slid to the side, revealing his giraffe like neck and one bony shoulder.

“What?” Greg snapped. He turned away and opened the fridge, pulling out the  platter of meat and setting it on the counter. As he fought with the cling film, he glanced back at Sherlock. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not after your brother for his money - or his clothes. In fact...” he motioned to the shirt and jeans. “...I’m planning on paying him back for all of this.”

Sherlock scoffed and reached for his tea. “You wouldn’t be able to afford it.”

Greg shoved a piece of turkey into this mouth to stop him from saying anything he might regret. Sherlock was, after all, Mycroft’s little brother.

Chewing slowly, he swallowed before responding. “I didn’t ask for any of this. In fact, if it had been up to me, he could have just sent one of his minions to my flat to grab me a change of clothes.”

“God, don’t encourage him,” Sherlock droned, sniffing at his tea. “To be honest, I’m surprised he hasn’t unleashed bed bugs in your flat so that you’d have no other choice than to burn _all_ of your possession and move in permanently.”

Not sure what to say, Greg just shook his head. “Bed bugs don’t really seem like his style,” he said finally. Wanting something to do with his hands, he reached for another piece of turkey. “Not that I’ve known him as long as you have, but your brother seems more like a neurotoxin sort of bloke to me.”

Much to his surprise, Sherlock seemed genuinely amused. 

“He said in jest.....” Sherlock remarked before peeling himself off of the island and flouncing away. “Laugh it up, Inspector,” he called over his shoulder. “But never say I didn’t warn you.”

 

 

Greg felt bad about leaving Sherlock in Mycroft’s once immaculate home, but he’d be damned if he was going to stick around and play babysitter. He also didn’t feel like he had any real authority over what Sherlock did in a private home as long as he wasn’t breaking any laws. 

It wasn’t like he and Mycroft.... He shied away from the thought, realizing it wasn’t the first time. In fact, it was becoming something of a habit whenever he’d start to think about what he and Mycroft were, what they were doing, or maybe even what they were _likely_ to do - that is, if Greg got lucky.

After the obligatory lecture on the perils of willful destruction of property - family, or no - Greg found himself back out on the streets, his hands buried deep inside his coat pockets. 

The sky was overcast, and the wind cool against his cheeks as he made his way down the quiet tree lined streets. They were so unlike the crowded bin lined streets of his own quarter, he could almost imagine that he was in one of those postcards they sold to tourists in the Palace. 

He thought back to Sherlock’s offhand comment about Mycroft unleashing bed bugs in his flat, so that Greg would come crawling back - maybe on a permanent basis. Though he didn’t believe it for a moment - his own crack about toxins aside - he couldn’t deny that there was some part of him that had gone warm at the thought of it. Because even if it meant waking up to Sherlock every other day, what would it be like to live in Mycroft’s fancy three story townhouse? 

What would it be like to live there - with Mycroft?

Greg knew he was being a sap, but now that he was alone he couldn’t quite help himself from spinning out the fantasy of it. He’d always been quick to leap, often without looking as to where he was going to land.

Failed marriage - they’d only known each other a week before he proposed - and shitty one bedroom flat aside, his dare devil approach to life had always served him well. He had a job he loved, in a city that he doubted would ever leave his blood completely. He had good friends - well, blokes that he could always count on to go grab a pint and a game of darts down the pub.

And he was successful. Still relatively young-looking, give or take a few premature grey hairs, he could still catch a bird’s eye - or a bloke’s apparently - without too much trouble. He made a pretty good salary - not even counting the latest bump - and he had a decent pension that would see him well into old age, assuming that he lived long enough to use it.

Something told him that the chances of that happening had decreased considerably, having taken the younger Holmes under his wing.

Which led his thoughts right back to Holmes, the elder. 

Bugger.

Nothing in Greg’s experience, as vast and as diverse as it had been, had prepared him for Mycroft Holmes. Nor what it would feel like to be so bundled up and taken care of by another human being. 

Food, drink, clothes, sleep, sex....

‘Promotion,’ his inner voice supplied, even as he shrugged it off. Because if he really thought that Mycroft had had him promoted, there was no way. It was one thing for him to have cleared the way, but it would have been something else entirely if he had actually pulled the trigger.

Though he obviously didn’t have as much pride as he had always prided himself on, he did have some. And if he really thought that Mycroft had bought him the job.... 

What was it that Wilson had said to him the day he’d been offered the job? 

‘That’s why I like you Greg,’ he’d said. ‘You’ve got tact. Tact, discretion, and you’re not proud.’

Well, proud or no, there was a fine line between being not proud and being a tool - and no matter what else he was, Greg Lestrade was no man’s tool. No matter how good said man happened to be with his hands, or his mouth....

Greg felt himself blushing and hoped no one was watching, because he was pretty sure that these jeans were hiding nothing. And the damn silk underwear wasn’t helping.

Forcing his mind elsewhere, in the hopes that his body would follow, Greg checked his watch. It was half past eleven. 

Stepping up to the curb, he threw out his hand. If he played his cards right, he’d be able to grab lunch at the shoppe by the Yard before the lunch crowd hit. Then, after that, who the hell knew? 

 

 

Two turkey salad sandwiches, a couple of packets of salt and vinegar crisps, a ginger beer, and a couple cups of coffee later, Greg dumped the contents of the last moving box out onto his desk. He took a moment to break down the box, adding it to the pile of flattened cardboard in the corner.

His nice chamois shirt was lying discarded over the back of one of the guest chairs. And even though he’d pushed up the sleeves, the equally nice henley was damp with sweat.

Turning his attention back to the pile of the desk, he sighed. 

There was a reason that he’d put off this particular box - the one marked, ‘Personal’ - until last. Because instead of holding a stack of files that were easily compartmentalized and put away in alphabetical order, this one contained a haphazard collection of pens, coffee cups, knicknacks, and photographs. 

Greg wiped his dusty hands on his new jeans and picked up a heavy silver frame that was just sticking out from underneath an Arsenals pennant that Wilson had given him, more as a joke than anything else, given that Greg wouldn’t walk across the street to see the Arsenals play - unless of course, they were playing Manchester United, but that’s beside the point.

He looked at the couple behind the glass. 

They were young.

And stupid.

But the thing that surprised him the most was that looking at them - him in his borrowed suit and her in her white cotton dress -  didn’t cause the old aching sensation in his gut, nor did it make him want to smash something.

How long had it been since he’d relegated the picture - frame and all - to his bottom desk drawer? Hidden beneath cold cases that, at least until he’d stumbled across Sherlock Holmes, or rather until Sherlock Holmes had come crashing into him, he’d given up on ever being able to solve? He remembered the night - though not the actual date - all too well. 

He’d come to get something after a few shandies with the guys and when he’d seen their wedding photo sitting by the phone, something had just snapped. No longer able to deny what he had known was true for awhile, he had picked up the photo, holding it much like he was holding it now. And underneath the harsh florescence, in the thankfully empty pen, he sank down into his desk chair and wept.

But now, from the other side of the glass - from the other side, period - he could look at them, at _her_ , and smile. 

She hadn’t been a good wife.

He hadn’t been the best husband either. 

True, he hadn’t gone to bed with anyone the way she’d had, but the jury was out on whether or not he’d forsaken all others. For how many times had he put the Yard first? Or the spouse of some victim who’d needed comfort? Or even the victims themselves who wouldn’t let him rest until justice had been served? 

He’d been willing to give up so much of himself for her.... 

That’s probably what made it as bad as it had been. The irony wasn’t lost on him that it hadn’t been until he was willing to reclaim part of that back that he was able to finally feel some of the understanding for her that he’d always been so easy to grant to others.

He grabbed one of the paper towels that he’d been using to knock the dust off of  the files before putting them away, and used it to gently wipe away the cobwebs and the smears. 

Clearing his throat, he gave “them” one last look, acknowledging the role that they both played in making him the man he was today. Then, after rubbing a piece of dust from his eye, he placed the frame - photo and all - on the low lying shelf behind his desk. 

He’d be curious as to what Wilson had to say about that; Wilson, who had not only listened to him rage for weeks leading up to the divorce, but who had also held his head over the porcelain altar more times than Greg wanted to think about after it was done.

He also wondered what Mycroft would have to say - if anything at all....

Mycroft.

‘All roads lead to Holmes....’

Greg settled back into his chair. He wasn’t entirely sure what his next move in that quarter should be. 

He had Mycroft’s number, but he didn’t really think that Mycroft -  especially now that he knew who he was - was someone he could just call. And as far as he could remember, Mycroft hadn’t necessarily invited him back when he’d crept out of his flat at o’dark thirty, despite Sherlock’s rather dire warning.

He assumed that Mycroft would contact him when he wanted to see him - hell, he might even send a car around. 

Not that it mattered, he supposed. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t have things to do. But even so, the idea that he might be sitting around like some 3rd form schoolgirl waiting for an invite to the class dance put his teeth on edge.

Just as he was reaching for his phone, he heard a tap at the door.

“Knock, knock,” Wilson greeted. He walked in, motioning for Greg to stay put. “Someone’s been busy,” he remarked, sitting two cups of coffee on the desk between them. “What part of ‘Take the day off, you’ve earned it,’ did you not understand?"

Greg shrugged. He laid the phone down next to the pile of memories on his desk and reached for the coffee. “Thanks,” he said, raising the steaming cup to his lips.

“Looks good in here,” Wilson looked around. “Care to go upstairs and sort my office out?”

“Thanks, but no,” Greg returned, setting the coffee down near his phone. “Would you believe that I have at least a dozen boxes in my flat I haven’t been through? In fact, I’m thinking I may make a day of it.”

Wilson nodded; Greg saw the moment his eyes landed on the wedding picture. 

“So you’re finally moving on then?” he asked, fiddling with his cup.

“Not much choice.” Greg bit the inside of his jaw, worrying the tender flesh between his teeth. “But I guess it’s time to let bygones be bygones. Isn’t that what they say?”

“I suppose so. And, while we’re on the subject....” Wilson tilted his head to one side. “...you’ve been cleanin’ up nice these days, Greg, what with the fancy suits and shirts.”

Greg looked down. 

“And Henry, from the night shift, is about ready to bust a gut, seeing as he’s seen you get picked up a time or two in a fancy black car.” Wilson paused, letting the silence stretch out between them. “Something I need to be worried about, Greg?”

Greg laughed. “No, not at all, Sir.” 

“You know how this place works as well as I do,” Wilson leaned back in his chair. “Gossip spreads like wildfire - the more outlandish the better.”

“And what are they saying?”

“Well,” Wilson began, “it apparently started with that kid, Sherlock.”

Greg couldn’t argue with him there.

“Then there’s the string of closed cases, then the new clothes, the promotion, the cars, the men in suits, and then, apparently, one fancy man in particular, not to mention his leggy assistant....” Wilson took a drink of his coffee. “You tell me it’s none of my business and I won’t mention it again.”

“It’s none of your business,” Greg said easily, secure in their friendship, despite the difference in rank. “But if it becomes your business, you’ll be the first to know.”

“That’s all I ask.”

They sat there for a few more moments in easy silence - a silence that was punctuated, once again, by a tap on the door.

Greg glanced up, expecting Donovan. 

What he got was Mycroft Holmes, trademark umbrella in one hand and a suit bag in the other. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade?” Mycroft said, with just enough lilt in his voice to make it sound like he was asking for confirmation of his identity, rather than for a moment of his time.

Greg scrambled to his feet; he could feel the blood rushing to his face, as surely as he could feel Wilson’s taking in the entire situation out of the corner of his eye. 

Damn.

“In the flesh,” he countered, not sure what Mycroft was playing at.

“Ah.” Mycroft stepped in, casting a smile in Wilson’s direction as he did so. It was one that Greg hadn’t seen before. It seemed genuine enough, but with just a touch of adolescent reserve. Almost as if he was meeting Greg’s father, instead of his boss.  “I’m Mycroft Holmes,” he said, addressing them both.

Wilson’s eyebrow disappeared in his hairline. And Greg coughed through a tickle in his throat.

“How may I help you, Mr. Holmes?” he asked.

A quick look over Mycroft’s shoulder revealed one Sally Donovan, mouth open, eyes wide. The moment she realized that she’d been caught, she scurried away; no doubt straight to Anderson. Realizing that his attention had wandered, he snapped his eyes back to Mycroft.  

“Sorry about that,” he apologized. 

“Not at all, Inspector.” Mycroft’s mouth twisted. “I was merely picking up my dry cleaning....”

‘Liar,’ Greg thought affectionately. He’d bet a million pounds that Mycroft had never picked up his own anything in his life....

‘He picked up _you_ , didn’t he?’ his inner Sherlock supplied.

“And as I was getting back to my office,” Mycroft continued smoothly, as if oblivious to Greg’s inner dialogue, “I noticed that one of your suits had been mixed up with mine.” He extended the bag, the wooden hanger balanced carefully on his fingertips. 

“And let me guess?” Greg asked, trying to smother a grin. “The Yard was closer to your office than the dry cleaner?”

“Exactly,” Mycroft said pleasantly. “I hope that I’m not intruding, but your address was on the receipt.”

Greg leaned forward and grabbed the bag; he purposefully took it by the shoulder to make sure their fingers didn’t touch. Not that he didn’t want to. But him touching any part of Mycroft Holmes in front of an audience, let alone another detective, wasn’t going to do anybody any good.

“Ta,” he said, raising an eyebrow in a way that used to get him cuffed for his efforts as often as not. “Anything else?”

Mycroft’s eyes crinkled ever so slightly, making Greg want to kiss him - Wilson’s presence be damned.

“No, that will be all.” Mycroft shifted his weight to one foot, readying himself to go. 

Just as Greg opened his mouth to say something - anything - that might make him stay, Mycroft hesitated. Setting both feet back on the ground, he shifted his umbrella to the crook of his arm and reached inside his jacket, fiddling with the pocket of his waistcoat.

“Actually, I almost forgot.”

Greg really was going to have to talk to the man about lying to police officers....

Mycroft pulled his hand out, only to open his palm and reveal a single key. A single key with a white paper disk attached. A white paper disk upon which there were three two-digit numbers, separated by hyphens.

“I believe this is yours, Inspector,” he said, his voice calm.

Without thinking, Greg took a step back. “That’s not mine.”

Mycroft’s countenance faded ever so slightly. “Are you sure, Inspector?” He asked. “Are you certain?”

Greg frowned. He wished Wilson wasn’t sitting there, drinking in every detail. He wished he was smarter. He wished he knew that the hell Mycroft was on about....

In the moment of his own hesitation, he saw the instant that Mycroft’s gaze traveled past his shoulder. Not only did an ineffable shift occur on his face, but the temperature in the room also seemed to drop by 5 degrees.

And then it hit him, right about the time that Mycroft closed his hand around the key, and moved to tuck it away among the hidden folds of his suit. 

“I see,” Mycroft said, voice low. “There must have been a mistake.”

“What?” Greg looked over his shoulder at his wedding photo - the one that he’d just put back out not because it _still_ hurt, but because it _didn’t._

‘Oh no, this was _not_ happening!’

“Wait a minute!” He threw a quick glance at Wilson, who was staring intently at the bottom of his empty cup.

He reached out and grabbed Mycroft’s wrist. 

“Where did you find that?” he asked, thinking fast - or, rather, thinking period. “I thought I’d lost that months ago.”

Mycroft’s hand relaxed, letting Greg pry the key out from between his fingers - fingers that seemed uncharacteristically cold. His eyes, however, remained guarded.

“I was given an envelope of personal effects by the cleaners,” Mycroft said, his voice giving nothing way. “Since the key was not mine, I assumed that it must be yours. If I have over assumed, I’ll be happy to return it to the shopkeeper so that they can find its rightful owner.”

“No!” Greg practically shouted, doing his level best to ignore the look of deep amusement settling itself on his superior’s face. “It’s mine - it’s definitely mine. I just wasn’t expecting it - that’s all. I mean....” Greg was glad he couldn’t see the blush that had to be up to his roots at this point. “It’s just that I wasn’t expecting to see it _here_ \- at this _exact_ moment.”

“Are you sure?” Mycroft pressed, making plausible deniability more and more distant with each and every second. 

“Of course I’m sure.” Greg turned the key over and held up the tag. “See this security code?” He asked, ready to make something up on the fly. “That’s my...”  He trailed off, gobsmacked. 

“That’s my birthday,” he said, doing his level best to keep the amazement out of his voice. “Of course it’s mine. Who else  - that is, who else in their right mind - would have _my_ birth date as a security code on their _house_?” He swayed forward, ever so slightly.

“Who, indeed?” Mycroft smiled, the sparkle returning to his eyes. And with that, he turned to go.  “Good afternoon, Constable Wilson,” he said with a nod. “Inspector Lestrade.”

Greg stood in silence. He watched as Mycroft weaved effortlessly through the cluttered cubicles and the harried office clerks as easily as if he were navigating the Louvre. And he continued to stand there, staring at nothing, for a good minute and a half after he was gone.

The weight of his absence was nearly oppressive.

Finally, Wilson chuckled. “So that’s Mister Big?” he asked, wadding up the coffee cup and tossing it in the bin. “Not what I expected.”

“Yea, me neither,” Greg retorted, finally gathering himself up and moving away from the door. 

“He doesn’t seem nearly as menacing up close, now, does he?” 

“Well...” Greg grinned, letting the smile grow until it threatened to split his face in two. “...menacing isn’t _exactly_ the word I’d choose. Scary, yes. But menacing...? Not so much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for all of the kudos and comments. I'm really happy that people are enjoying these characterizations as much as I am! This is the first time that I've written a serial story, and the ideas just keep coming! So thank you for your support! 
> 
> Oh, before I forget: I still own nothing. Only the mistakes are mine!


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